John Plays Hooky
by chappysmom
Summary: Didn't he deserve a day to himself for a change? A day to do what he wanted? A few hours without being chided and bossed and ordered about by his brilliant but annoying flatmate? With no sniffling children or worried mothers? No police lights or crime scene tape? No chaos? Just … sunshine and a chance to relax for a change?
1. Chapter 1

Note:

As always, I own nothing but my own ideas. Everything else is Doyle's, Moffat/Gatiss's, and the BBC's. Not beta'd or britpicked, so all errors are my own.

Really, I just wanted to have some fun after all the anguish of Reichenbach. Turns out, John wanted to have some fun, too. Sherlock, though? Well, he tends to be a little more dramatic ... like that's a surprise.

##

It had been a dreadful night.

Well, a dreadful week, thought John, as he yawned his way through his morning tea and toast. Five days (and nights) chasing the latest serial killer on nothing but stolen moments for a bite and a half of food or fifteen minutes of sleep. Chases through the streets. Countless cab rides (though that number paled in comparison to the record held by insults traded between Sherlock and the NSY).

All that, in the worst weather London could find to blow, rain, sleet, and drop on them.

So it just figured that, this morning, the day the case was finally finished and life could go back to normal (for them), that he would be called for locum work at the surgery for the first time in weeks.

He wanted to say no. His bones, his muscles, his blood, his very hair were all exhausted, and he was really in no fit state to be making medical decisions for a hamster, much less real, live patients. Except…

"John! I'm bored!" Sherlock's voice came slamming into the kitchen, hurried by a series of screeches from his violin.

John just buried his head in his arms. How was this even possible? The man had been running at full tilt for five _days_ and had had approximately three hours of sleep since they had stumbled in at some godawful hour very, very late (early?) this morning. How was Sherlock even awake, much less bored already?

If he didn't want to kill him so badly, John would be impressed with his stamina.

But no, actually, mostly, at this moment, he just wanted to kill him and go back to bed. Except Mycroft probably had about a dozen cameras in the flat and would have him arrested before his head hit the pillow. He would probably keep him awake on purpose, just to make him suffer for a while before he disappeared forever. (Though, then again, Mycroft would totally understand how he would have been driven to it by Sherlock himself—he was his brother after all—and would possibly kill John kindly. An overdose of sleeping pills sounded heavenly.)

Another piercing squeal of anguish from the violin tore through the John's eardrums and he swallowed the last mouthful of tea and practically sprinted for the door, snatching his coat as he went. He'd rather risk the malpractice suits than face a day of Sherlock being bored. Not on this little sleep, at least.

It was only once he was out the door that he realized what a beautiful day it was—and not just because of the total lack of things like mad serial killers and possibly-more-mad consulting detectives chivvying him to move faster, think faster, shoot faster, like a coach for an insane Olympic crime-fighting event.

No, it was actually a perfect, beautiful, Spring day. After the week of cold, wet, miserable weather (and John had been outside for most of it), this was heaven.

It just figured, too. Because on a day like this, his second choice of activity (after sleeping in, followed by a late morning nap, with an afternoon snooze on the schedule for after lunch), would be to just enjoy the weather. Days like this—in England—in_April_, for god's sake—were gifts, and he was going to waste it, checking toddlers for colds.

Sometimes, he hated his life.

He was on the Tube, though, like the good, disgustingly responsible adult he was, when he asked himself why?

Why? Didn't he deserve a day to himself for a change? A day to do what _he_ wanted? A few hours without being chided and bossed and ordered about by his brilliant but annoying flatmate? With no sniffling children or worried mothers? No police lights or crime scene tape? No chaos? Just … sunshine and a chance to relax for a change?

He looked around at the other poor drudges, heading for their 9-to-5 jobs. Sure, they might get regular, predictable hours and a full night's sleep, but he wasn't really one of them, was he? Wasn't the point of doing locum work to be flexible? Sure, that was mostly to leave him available for Sherlock's more insane adventures, but why shouldn't he benefit for a change?

He stood there, crowded in on all sides by other commuters and then remembered playing hooky with his dad once, when he was about seven. Struggling to keep his balance (he really was more tired than he liked to admit), he found himself staring at the Tube map in the car. All he'd need to do would be to make one train change at Hammersmith. It would be a beautiful day for it, after all.

Decided, he edged toward the door.

#

It wasn't until he got off the train at Heathrow that John realized he'd left his phone behind. His wallet, too. Luckily, his Oyster card was in his pocket, and … a roll of notes? Where had that come from? He wasn't Sherlock, who always seemed to have plenty of cash on hand. (Why the man had needed a flatshare in the first place would always be a mystery to John.) But, wait … last night. Sherlock had blindly pushed some cash in his hand for the cabbie, but the driver—a saint, obviously—had been so sympathetic after Sherlock harangued John for the entire drive, had refused to accept John's money. He had been so tired, he hadn't even looked at the denominations.

Well, that would come in handy, he thought, as the train sped along. It's not like he needed his phone, after all. In fact, it would be better this way—Sherlock couldn't pester him if he didn't have it.

Today was looking better and better.

He did need to call the clinic, though, to tell them he couldn't make it after all. They would probably write him off altogether after this, but damn it, he needed this break. He deserved it. And it would be irresponsible of him to try to treat the ill and infirm when he couldn't keep his own eyes open, right?

This was the argument he made to the receptionist, when he found a pay phone and dredged up some change from the bottom of one of his inside pockets. They weren't happy, but had to agree that a grand total of five hours of sleep in the last 48 hours was not exactly ideal for a practicing healthcare professional.

So, John checked the surgery off his list of things to do today and just smiled, relishing the fact that this meant his to-do list had one and only one item on it.

1. Play Hooky.

With a surprisingly light step for a man with next to no sleep, he walked out of the station, smiling like an idiot.

#

John spent some of his unexpected windfall on a decadent cup of cappuccino and a truly huge cinnamon roll. Who cared about nutrition? He was going to enjoy himself today.

He strolled along the concourse, munching on his bun, feeling only sympathy for the poor sods he passed who were stuck on business trips. You'd think they'd relish the chance to travel, but all of them looked tired and frazzled—some of them worse than he felt. And they were stuck wearing suits, poor sods.

When was the last time he'd been to Heathrow, anyway? That flight to France with Sherlock two months ago, he thought. (He had felt useless with his student-level French from twenty years ago.) He hadn't exactly had the chance to look around then, though. He was too busy being hurried along by an impatient Sherlock Holmes. It was a treat to be able to take his time. Sure, the airport was chock-full of tourists, but it was also _interesting_ (especially when you weren't there to catch a plane yourself). He was no Sherlock Holmes, but John had always enjoyed watching people. Oh, his emphasis had always been more for picking out health problems than looking for marital affairs and potential crimes and such, but Sherlock wasn't the only one who could spot details about passersby.

But more than that, Heathrow had _planes_. He had long since gotten over the supposed glamour of flying—a glamour which the airlines had killed, butchered, stomped on, and then scattered in highly expensive pieces to the winds, so far as John was concerned. Unless you were being cossetted on a private plane (not that that had ever happened to him), flying was one of the least glamorous things to do he could imagine. (Well, okay, there was that skip-diving he'd done with Sherlock three or four cases ago, but he was thinking about travel.)

But still … actually flying in a cramped commercial jet may no longer be exciting or magical, but flight itself? He'd been one of the boys constantly building model planes, and his dad had been as enthusiastic as John was. It had been one of the few things they could talk about, other than football, and one of John's fondest childhood memories had been that day when he was seven when his Dad brought him here to watch the planes take off.

How often does anybody do this, anymore, John wondered. We're all always in such a rush to get from point A to point B, we don't take time to relish the pure miracle of the fact that we're _flying_.

And so he sat and drank his expensive coffee and ate his cinnamon roll and leaned back and watched.

#

After an hour, John noticed airport security passing by more often, watching him with sideways glances. Huh. This hadn't been a problem when he was seven, he thought, but still, he was sitting alone in an airport, without luggage, and without anxiously watching the arrivals boards. He was actually relaxed. Of course he was drawing attention. With a sigh for a paranoid, terrorist-infected world, he picked up his trash and headed for the exit.

He was only partway there when he saw a man—well, kid really—sidle up to the businessman ahead of him and, with a bump and an apology, lift his wallet.

John's eyes narrowed. Now, that wasn't right.

He sighed again to himself. He really hadn't wanted to work today, and while stopping crimes might not be his actual job, it was closer than he'd wanted to come. This was all Sherlock's fault, he thought. Before he'd met the man, he probably would never have even noticed a team of pickpockets.

But, well, he had, and he did, and that really left him with no choice.

And so, he took three, firm steps to the left and stopped in front of the kid. "Give it back," he told him quietly.

"What?"

John just watched him, all calm eye contact and firm voice, but with no threat, no intimidation. "Give the man back his wallet."

A flash of scorn on the other's face as he glanced at John's unassuming appearance. "Don't push your nose where it doesn't belong, Pop. This is none of your business."

"I think you'll find that it is," John said with a small smile that he didn't allow to reach his eyes.

"You a cop?" Now there was the tiniest bit of concern in the kid's eyes, but not enough to balance the scorn.

"Not exactly, but the man standing behind you is the next best thing."

Another sneer. "Like I'm going to fall for that old trick." He started to back away, daring John to stop him, then his eyes widened as his exit was blocked.

"What's going on here, gentlemen?" The security guard who'd been watching John was like an unmovable wall.

Before John could say anything, the kid spoke up. "Nothing. I was just, er, asking directions."

John lifted an eyebrow. "And lifting that man's wallet," he said pointing to the businessman who was getting further away all the time.

"What?" The guard stepped forward, suspicious, but not sure who to believe.

"This boy stole that man's wallet," John told him calmly. "I saw him do it, and was telling him to give it back."

"You _saw_ him?" the guard asked skeptically, just as the kid said, "Nah. You couldn't have!"

"Look, I'm not trying to cause trouble," John said, trying to look as innocent and calm as he could. "I was just trying to prevent that poor bloke from getting on his plane without his wallet. All I want to do is get the next train back to Hammersmith."

The guard looked at him and then down at the kid, who was starting to fidget. He's going to run any second now, John thought, and the guard is going to hold me responsible somehow. Despite the caffeine and sugar running through his veins, he really was too tired to chase anyone today. So, assuming his doctor-face, he held out his hand and said matter-of-factly. "Just hand it over. Believe me, it's less painful this way. You're better off if you do it willingly, and if you force the guards to chase you through the concourse, they're just likely to get angry."

"What the hell business is it of yours?" burst out the kid. "Who the hell are you and why do you care?"

"Dr. John Watson, and I don't really, except that what you're doing is wrong and you lifted the wallet right in front of me."

He hadn't expected to see recognition on both faces.

"The blogger?"

"The one that runs around with Sherlock Holmes?"

John sighed. It wasn't really all that long ago that he'd had a reputation of his own, but it had long-since been lost, burned away in the brilliance that surrounded Sherlock Holmes. "Yes, that's me. Now just hand over the wallet so I can be on my way?"

But nobody moved. The two of them—the guard and the pickpocket—just stared at him with something akin to awe on their faces. John just blinked. This was not the reaction he was used to getting. Then both of them asked "Is he here?" and John tried not to roll his eyes. He should have known the shell-shocked, star-struck looks weren't meant for him. Even on his day off, he couldn't get away from Sherlock.

#

Bored, Sherlock all but threw his violin bow down on the table. It had been _hours_ since he'd had a case. It was unbearable.

To make it worse, John wasn't here. He'd gone off to that boring job of his that he claimed was so necessary for paying the bills, which was ridiculous. Now that Mycroft had succumbed to the inevitable and released it, Sherlock's trust fund was more than sufficient for the two of them. Not that John would accept that. He kept insisting he needed to earn his own way. It was most frustrating. They'd finished their case. John should be here right now, sleeping, no doubt.

Sherlock was well aware that John needed more sleep than he did. He had already accepted that today would be a day of (boring) rest, just so that John could recover properly. Hadn't he waited until 7:00 before he'd come out to the sitting room to play the violin? He hadn't even started any experiments in the kitchen before John's breakfast so his he could eat his (boring) toast and drink his (boring) tea in peace. Sherlock had really been very considerate.

Which is why it rankled, the way John had stormed out of the flat with half his toast left on the plate. It wasn't like him to waste food (or, not without a case forcing him to). Nor had he been running late for his (boring) job. Was it something he had read in the paper? Sherlock took a moment to glance at the open page. No, nothing of note.

No, the signs (red face, hurried exit) suggested John had been annoyed with Sherlock upon his departure, and really, Sherlock could not think why.

Picking up his phone, he sent a friendly text.

_-I'm bored. How is your day going?_

Seconds later, he heard a chime from the desk. Turning his head, he sighed. John had left his phone. Why had he left it? That was so unlike him. He was never in such a hurry that he left his phone and … Sherlock blinked. His wallet. John had left his wallet _and_ his phone? This was unprecedented.

He thought for a moment. Suppose that John had, in fact, been annoyed with him when he left, and that he had been so annoyed he'd accidentally left behind his phone and wallet. Would he appreciate having said items returned to him? Perhaps brought to the surgery? That could be seen as a gesture of good-will, which could be useful, assuming that annoyance had been a factor in his abrupt departure. It would be thoughtful, as well, because without his wallet, he would not be able to access his bank account to pay for his lunch. Since he had had to force himself to go to work today, after a strenuous week that had even left Sherlock feeling a bit tired, proper nutrition was important.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock hurried to his bedroom to get dressed. John would be so pleased to see him, he might actually gain Good Flatmate points for being considerate.

Minutes later, he was out the door and hailing a cab.

#

(Note: Oh, and I'm going on vacation for a few days, so chapter 2-which is written-will be delayed until I've had a chance to work on chapter 3. Don't worry, though! This is far too much fun to let idle.)


	2. Chapter 2

"Look," John said, "I honestly don't want to get involved in anything, here. I was just feeling some sympathy for the poor sod who's going to have to cancel all his credit cards. Obviously that was a mistake, so I'm just going to go…."

He tried not to think about how much this felt like backing away from an angry dog. Both the security guard and the young pickpocket were staring with rather more intensity than he liked. This had been a totally unexpected side effect of his blogging—this semi-fame he seemed to have developed. A notoriety that had nothing to do with himself and everything to do with Sherlock Holmes. After the Moriarty, serial-bombing affair, and Sherlock's subsequent rise to glory, the little blog John had started solely as a therapy aid had become widely, unexpectedly, unbelievably popular. With the result that scenes like these were happening more and more often.

Not that he minded, really. He liked to think that he was drawing clients in for Sherlock and he was proud to help spread the word of Sherlock's brilliance. Because he was. Brilliant, that is. And John wanted people to know that.

Except … sometimes, he just wanted to be, you know, himself. John Watson. A person who had had his own profession(s), his own identity, long before he'd moved in with the mad genius that was Sherlock Holmes.

He knew he should have let the pickpocket go. If he hadn't said anything, he wouldn't be standing here, transfixed by a pair of stares that would have given St. John pause. (For just a moment, he wondered how Jesus' disciples had dealt with his reflected glory when they'd head out to buy bread or a pair of sandals, or stop off for a cup of wine. Were they looked at with the same reflected awe that John was facing right now? Except, well, _more_, of course, because it was Jesus and not just some ultra-observant prat of a detective, though frankly Jesus hadn't had to deal with the internet, thanks very much, or the Press, and meanwhile, they were still staring and it was getting uncomfortable.)

"Um, so … I'll just leave you to it, then?" He asked, taking a step away, not quite daring to believe it would be this easy.

"Wait. Whose wallet did you say he has?" The security guard asked, just as John thought he was going to get away.

"His," John said, pointing, just as the punk kid grumbled something about his rights into his chest. "And, no, you don't get to complain about your rights. You do _not_ have the right to steal other people's things, but that man over there does have the right not to be stolen from. Just like I can't decide I like your jacket and just take it from you. Stealing is the risk you took, and you got caught. What happens now depends on this gentleman and whatever the man you took this from chooses to do. Maybe if you apologize, he won't press charges … but the longer it takes and the further away he gets, the harder it's going to be."

Both the kid and guard turned their heads to see the businessman, now talking on his phone, heading toward the gates. Neither seemed to know what to do, and then the kid yelled, "Hey, mister! Wait!" and started toward his mark.

John just smiled and, before they could turn to pull him back, slipped away.

#

"Yes, I just need to see John … that is, Dr. Watson for a minute," Sherlock told the receptionist at the surgery, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the disinfectant smell permeating the office. How did John manage to work here? It was so unpleasant, nothing like the familiar chemistry smells from their kitchen at home.

"I'm sorry, but Dr. Watson…" she began.

"Yes, I'm sure he's with a patient," Sherlock interrupted, flashing her his most charming smile. "It's just that he left his phone and his wallet, and I wanted to return them to him before lunch. I knew how inconvenient it would be for him."

She blinked absently and Sherlock struggled to contain his impatience while waiting for the obviously rusty wheels in her head to turn enough to compute this data. "But … he's not here today," she finally said.

"No, you're mistaken. He left this morning, despite being short on sleep."

"Yes, that's what he said when he called earlier," she told him in what she must have fondly hoped was a helpful tone of voice. "He said he was just too tired to come in and that he'd be a danger to himself and others which wasn't very professional of him." She chuckled briefly, remembering, and Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"When was this?"

"About 9:00, I think. I remember that Sarah was unhappy that he gave us so little notice, but we assumed he had overslept. He has this awful flatmate, you see, who keeps him up til' all hours. He said he'd barely gotten any sleep in days, poor man, and we certainly didn't want him falling asleep in his office like last time, so naturally we excused him, even though it's making things quite difficult because we're so terribly busy, you see, and we really needed him."

Sherlock blinked a moment, wondering how she'd managed all of that in one sentence, but then people do babble, don't they, which just wastes time when clearly he had more important things to do than to stand here listening, but that was just another reason why he would simply never understand people, not really, not unless they were committing crimes, which was something else entirely because he always understand that. … She was staring at him, obviously waiting for some kind of response, so he said, "Yes, of course," and gave her another smile as he walked away.

Fact: John had left the flat on time this morning—early, even—and had clearly meant to come to work.

Fact: Sometime after leaving the flat, he had decided not to.

Fact: He had called in to tell them he wasn't coming.

Fact: Except, he had left his phone behind.

So … how had he made the call? Had he been _forced_ to make the call? Sherlock thought about going back to ask the receptionist if John had sounded worried-frightened-threatened, but decided not to. She would no doubt just start babbling again and she had already said he sounded tired. That was probably all she had noticed.

People were so unobservant.

Thinking, he opened John's wallet to see if there were any clues. Had he had an appointment that he hadn't mentioned? A note? But no … there was nothing. ID, his bank card, a couple bank notes. Nothing useful. His phone wasn't helpful, either. There was nothing there in the calendar, no recent calls.

So … where was he? Presumably he wasn't bleeding out in an alley somewhere, since he had called the surgery. He also presumably had not noticed his phone and wallet were missing since he hadn't come back to the flat … unless he _had_ and found Sherlock missing?

He actually paused at that. It was actually feasible. John could be at 221B right now, fuming at Sherlock for having stolen his wallet—not that there was anything worth stealing.

Thoughtfully, he pulled out his phone. "Lestrade, good. I need you to trace a call for me."

_"Sherlock? What … we closed the case last night."_

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. "Yes, Inspector, but this is about John. He didn't make it to work this morning and left the flat without his phone or his wallet. I'm concerned about him and wanted to know from where the call to the surgery was placed. Or, I suppose, you could trace his Oyster card. Whichever's easier."

_"Wait, is he in trouble?"_

Clearly Lestrade hadn't gotten enough sleep, either. How dull. "That is the question, Inspector. I can't know if he is in danger without knowing where he is. He left the flat this morning to go to work, but he is not there and I am unable to get in touch with him. He may be perfectly fine, or he may be in trouble. I don't have enough data."

There was a sigh from the other end. _"Sherlock, he's a grown man. If there were a problem, I'm sure he would let you know."_

"If he could, Inspector. Need I remind you that not that long ago he was abducted and wrapped in a Semtex vest? Somehow, he neglected to call to tell me he'd be late _that_ night."

Another sigh. _"Fine. What's the number of the surgery?"_

#

Ignoring the commotion behind him with the expertise developed over months of living with Sherlock Holmes, John made his way toward the exit. That was well done, he congratulated himself. You helped out that poor sod who'd gotten his pocket picked and the kid had actually shown a modicum of remorse. Maybe he'd even turn his life around.

Well, maybe not, he thought, but still. It was better than if he hadn't come at all, right? This was so much better than diagnosing sprained ankles and sniffling children at the surgery. He'd even gotten to relive the memories of one of the few perfect days he could remember with his dad while he watched the planes take off and land.

So far, this was shaping up to be a wonderful day.

He was still tired, though, and soon the motion of the train was close to putting him to sleep. That would never do, he thought. Enough sitting around. He needed to stretch his legs on this gift of a day.

The image of the Thames came into his head. When was the last time he'd had a chance to walk along the river? Not running after a criminal, or stomping along, trying to find a body … but just a stroll. Something relaxing. Something soothing and pleasant, just active enough without being tiring. He could practically see the way the clear sunlight would dance on the water. He could just change to the Circle Line at South Kensington and get off at Victoria.

Yes, that would be perfect.

#

Sherlock fidgeted. Why was there so much traffic heading to Heathrow? Was there a mass evacuation Mycroft had neglected to tell him about? Was it a national holiday? Was British Airways having a buy-one-get-a-dozen-free-tickets special? Surely the traffic couldn't be this bad all the time?

He opened his mouth to harangue the driver, but closed it with a snap. It wouldn't do to make the man more unhappy than he already was. (Why were taxi drivers so sensitive, really? No wonder Hope had become murderous—the aneurism was probably just the excuse.)

He stared at the impossible number of cars outside the window and tried to think. _Why_ had John gone to the airport?

He hadn't mentioned meeting someone, so it seemed unlikely that Harry was returning from a trip. Of course, there were army buddies to be considered, but that's not something John would keep a secret (would he?). Unless it was the body of an army buddy? That was actually possible, he supposed. It was something John would do discreetly. He wasn't one to flaunt his service, after all, and that was something he might like to do in privacy (i.e., without Sherlock).

He tried to recall the page of the paper John had left spread on the kitchen table this morning. Nothing had struck his attention earlier, but he hadn't been thinking about the airport at the time.

But, no. John had left his wallet—and his ID.

What other reason would he have for going to the airport?

Fact: Most people who traveled to airports did so because they were catching a flight.

But that was ridiculous. John wouldn't go somewhere on a plane without telling Sherlock. And he certainly wouldn't have left his phone behind, much less his wallet. You couldn't get near a plane without about six forms of identification these days, after all. Sherlock found himself wondering if John's passport was in its usual hiding place.

Though … leaving the wallet and the phone. This was nagging at him. It was one thing if he'd just forgotten them, but what if it were deliberate? What if he had left them on purpose? What if he no longer felt he needed them—or wanted them? What if he were cutting ties and … leaving?

Galvanized, Sherlock leaned forward.

"Faster!" he shouted at the driver.

#

Note: I am absolutely positive that the security at London's airports is top-notch. The willing-but-not-particularly-able security guard who makes his fanfic debut here is no doubt an aberration. (And, well, he does try, so he gets credit for that, anyway.)


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock practically flew into the main level of the airport, looking frantically around. John had to be here somewhere, didn't he? He couldn't have left already?

What if he had? Or, what if he were on a plane right now, about to take off? Sherlock had no idea how long he'd been here, but it was three hours since he'd left the flat.

He could be en route to almost anywhere in the world.

Swearing, Sherlock pulled out his phone and hit the speed-dial. "Mycroft," he said as soon as his brother had picked up. "I need you to put John on the No-Fly list, right away."

_"What?"_ His brother's voice sounded resigned rather than urgent. _"Sherlock, what have you done now?"_

"I don't know, but he's at Heathrow and I need to stop him before he leaves."

_"Where do you suppose he is going?"_

Sherlock was pacing through the crowds now, searching for a familiar blond head. "If I knew that, I would be able to stop him, wouldn't I? Except I don't. I have no idea what I've done to offend him this time. All I know is he didn't bring any luggage with him. Well, not unless he hid some, or bought some, along with a new mobile to replace the one he left at the flat. But, don't you see? He _left his phone and his wallet_ and then came _to the airport_. Why else would he do that, if not to throw me off his trail?"

There was a beat of silence, then Mycroft asked, _"You jumped from John accidentally leaving behind his phone…"_

"…And wallet." Sherlock interjected.

_"…Yes, and wallet. He left them both behind when he left for work on far too little sleep, and you think this means he is actually trying to abandon you and Baker Street?"_

"But he came to the airport. It fits, Mycroft."

_"No, Sherlock, it's just the bizarre worst-case scenario you somehow leaped to. How would he pay for a plane ticket without his wallet? What about his passport?"_

Sherlock approached one man from behind and spun him by his shoulder. Damn, it wasn't John. He gave a polite grimace of apology and continued on, eyes constantly scanning the flow of people through the concourse. "He could have gotten replacements, forgeries. He could have been planning this for weeks, Mycroft—since the pool! He didn't even give me a chance to talk him out of it!"

_"Sherlock,"_ Mycroft's voice snapped with that irritating calm-infused authority Sherlock had always hated. _"You are over-reacting. This is John Watson you're talking about. Even if he had the funds and resources to do as you suspect—and he does not. You know how small his pension is. But even if he did, he is far too fair-minded a man and far too good a friend to leave without telling you."_

"But … then why was he at Heathrow?" Sherlock hated how small his voice sounded.

There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. (What was it with people sighing today?) _"I don't know, Sherlock. Perhaps he just likes looking at the planes. Perhaps he fell asleep on the Tube. Perhaps he toyed with the idea of going on a small holiday for a chance to get some sleep. But no, the answer to your question is that I cannot put your flatmate on the terrorism No-Fly list just because you're afraid he's moving out."_

"That was no help whatsoever, Mycroft," Sherlock all but snarled into the phone as he disconnected and shoved it back into his pocket.

He hated to admit it, but Mycroft had a point. John occasionally had a low boiling point for his temper, but he was ultimately a disgustingly fair-minded man. He might (frequently) storm from the flat in anger for an hour or two, but he would never actually (willingly) leave without at least stating the fact.

Maybe he really had come to look at the planes.

But no, that was ridiculous. Sherlock's speed through the concourse had slowed by now. He could see the families surrounded by mountains of luggage, the business travelers with their sleek bags. It all looked quite normal, quite boring. Quite without John. He tried to deduce John's location, but without any data, he was stymied. Even he needed a starting point, after all.

There was a discordant huddle of people off to the side, though, gesticulating wildly as they spoke. A security guard (dull, overweight), a businessman (well-groomed and irritated), and a young hoodlum (not homeless, but not well-off, either).

He shrugged. They were unimportant. What mattered was finding _John_, he thought, and then was taken by surprise when the security guard looked at him with a dawning sense of delight. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I knew it!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I knew it couldn't just be a coincidence," the guard said, face alight. "What is it, a ring of pickpockets? Smuggling? Drugs?"

Sherlock blinked at him, having an unusually difficult time shifting mental gears. He looked again at the young pickpocket—obviously experienced at his craft, but showing a hint of remorse. The businessman had a thoughtful look on his face, clearly considering what to do. The security guard, though—showed pure delight. How boring must his life be, that catching a single pickpocket cheered him to this degree?

Except … Sherlock took another look at the boy and then glanced around. There. At the newsstand. An older man ostensibly reading the paper, but giving the occasional glance at the trio. And the boy … the young pickpocket was very carefully not looking in his direction. Curious. Not that he cared. Not unless it helped him find John.

Meanwhile, the three of them were still staring at Sherlock as if they expected him to perform wonders, and that was exceedingly odd. "Why do you ask?"

"That's why you sent him on ahead, isn't it? Your assistant? Dr. Watson? The tip of the spear, yeah? Do you think this will make the blog?"

"John was here?"

"Of course he was," the guard said, surprised. "He caught the kid here but left before I could…"

"What did he say? Was he catching a plane? Where is he now?" Sherlock's brain had kicked into top gear, now, and his tongue was having trouble keeping up. These people had actually _seen and talked to_ John this morning. He needed to know everything.

"He didn't say anything about a plane," the guard said, "And he didn't have any luggage, which was why I was watching him in the first place. So when he confronted the kid, here…"

"Jamie," the pickpocket volunteered as he stared at Sherlock in something like awe.

What was wrong with these people? All he wanted to know was either where John was now, or where he had been going when he left. Why was this so hard?" But the guard was continuing, trying to sound official, as if he were hoping to impress Sherlock with his (laughable) detective skills. "Yeah, Jamie, here. Watson confronted him and naturally that's when I came over to sort things out. I insisted he return the wallet…"

"No, Dr. Watson did that," Jamie said. "He said it wasn't fair to make him cancel his credit cards but that he didn't want to get involved."

Sherlock hid a smile. That was just like John, to interrupt … whatever he was doing … to stop a crime in progress simply because it wasn't fair. If more people in the world were like John … but that was ridiculous. Nobody was like John, which was why it was vital that he find him. "But. Where. Did. He. Go?" he asked, enunciating carefully.

"He slipped away while we were getting Mr. Jenkins, here, who's trying to decide whether to press charges."

Sherlock looked at the businessman. American, married, having an affair with his secretary, dressed in a bespoke suit and custom-made shoes—obviously a fine choice for pocket-picking, if you were hoping for a good score. He had been watching the exchange with interest and now held out a hand. "Mark Jenkins, and you're Sherlock Holmes, correct?"

Sherlock ignored the hand but nodded. Why were none of these people telling him where John _was_?

Jenkins said, "I'm grateful to your colleague. Most people would have just looked the other way. I understand that you are with? … connected to? … the police?"

"Yes, whenever they need my help," he said with as much patience as he could muster. "But what I really need to know is…"

"Who's in charge of the pickpocketing ring, right?" the security guard asked, his face avid. "Is that where Dr. Watson is now?"

Sherlock mentally recited the first ten elements from the periodical table. Then he alphabetized them. And then recited their chemical denotations. "Pickpocketing ring?" he asked with a sigh. Maybe if he engaged these people in their idiotic small talk for a minute, he could get them back on track for what was really important.

"Yes, is that why Dr. Watson arrested Jamie, here?"

"Oi, he didn't arrest me!" Jamie said, protesting. "He told me to give the wallet back and I did."

The guard glared at him. "Shut it. That's not the point. I want to know if there's an entire ring of thieves, because I can't imagine Mr. Holmes would have come all this way just for you."

That was certain, Sherlock thought. How had he gotten embroiled in this conversation, anyway? He had been walking along, hunting John and not doing any harm (not counting that Pekinese he'd almost kicked across the room because its owner had let it free at just the wrong moment). All he had done was glance this way and now it was like dealing with three Andersons at once, all because these idiots had seen John and could tell him where he'd gone. Just as soon as he got this taken care of.

Well, then, fine.

"Yes, of course, I sent John ahead because I knew there was a pickpocketing ring at work here in the airport," Sherlock improvised. "I knew officer … Langton … would be sharp enough to pick up on that, but naturally we were hoping that Jamie would want to testify as a witness, so John came ahead. He has better people skills, you see." He flashed one of his fake, friendly smiles at all of them. "The man you're really after is the man with brown hair over at the newsstand reading the Racing Times. No! Don't look at him!" (Idiots.) "He's been there since before I arrived and keeps watching over his paper, with particular attention paid to Jamie, here. No doubt he is Jamie's main contact and is hoping to observe whether Jamie tattles or not."

He took in the glazed-yet-impressed looks from the three of them and sighed (like everybody else today). It was truly sad how few people observed the simplest of details of their daily life. What were they teaching in schools today? Maybe he should offer a lecture series. (He shuddered at the thought of a hall filled with clueless Anderson-types. Maybe not.)

"So, while Langton, here, radios for fellow guards to come take the man over there into custody, and Jamie considers his bleak future if he doesn't give evidence, I should really head after John. He's the, er, tip of the spear, you know, and I can't let him get too far ahead. Which way did he go again? Langton?" He infused his voice with a crisp command, as if certain this mess could be left in his (not so) capable hands.

The man was suitably impressed though, and all but snapped to attention. "Right. He slipped out while we were getting Mr. Jenkins' attention, but he'd been looking toward the trains, so my guess is he went that way…"

The man was still babbling as Sherlock gave a quick nod and ran off toward the exit, just as a handful of guards came charging into the concourse, converging on the newsstand.

All he could think as he ran was, how had John known that there was, in fact, a pickpocketing ring at the airport? And why had he come alone?

#

John left the Tube station and drew in an appreciative inhale at the breathtaking day. The sun was at its height now and he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such perfect weather. He was willing to admit that sheer fatigue and the ravages of a long, wet winter might be coloring his perception, but it didn't change the fact that the day was gorgeous.

Frankly, the only thing better than being out enjoying the sunshine would be if he were actually napping in it.

Still, he strolled along the embankment with a warm feeling of contentment. He had sunshine and peace. He had even caught a criminal this morning, though that had been the merest fluke. He wondered idly whether the victim would press charges, or if the kid would get off with a warning. Still, it wasn't like it was any of his business. It's not like it was an actual crime ring or anything, just one kid, one wallet … it was too perfect a day to worry about it.

Up ahead, he saw a slip for a Thames river cruise—one of those touristy things that visitors seemed to love but which John had never bothered to do. Why would he? London was his city, it wasn't like he needed a tour. (And god knew that if he did, all he had to do was ask Sherlock. What he didn't know about getting around the city wasn't worth knowing.) But still … the river, a boat, _and_ a chance to sit quietly in the sun? His steps slowed.

He had just turned toward the ticket booth when he heard a sniffle off to the side. There, crouched against the wall was a boy, about eight years old and miserable, all by himself.

#


	4. Chapter 4

John moved toward the little boy as gently as possible. "Hi there. Are you lost?" he asked in his friendliest voice.

Head buried in his arms, the boy just nodded and sniffled some more.

"Can I help you?" The head shook no, but the boy's wet eyes were watching him carefully over his folded arms. "Why not? You look like you need help."

The boy muttered something. It was muffled by his tears and spoken into his chest, but John heard the word "stranger." Okay, he thought. "Well, if it helps, my name is John. John Watson. I know I don't have a uniform, but I work with the police at Scotland Yard."

The head had lifted slightly, but the face was decidedly not convinced. John looked up and down the pavement, hoping to see a police officer or someone searching for the boy, but there was nobody. How had someone misplaced this little boy and not even noticed?

He crouched down, carefully not crowding the boy, not wanting to scare him. "Do you have a name? Because, if we introduce ourselves, we won't be strangers. So, my name's John … what's yours?"

"Andy," he said in a whisper.

"Well, Andy, it's a pleasure to meet you," John told him cheerfully. "So, now that we know each other, why don't you tell me what happened. Were you out with your mum?"

Andy shook his head again and held out a crumpled ticket for the river cruise. John looked at it and then glanced to the empty slip. "Did you get left behind?"

Another nod.

"Okay, here's what we need to do. We'll go over to the ticket booth and explain that you were separated from your mum …" Andy was shaking his head again. "No?"

"Not Mum. Steve."

"A friend?"

Andy shrugged again, as if he didn't really want to say. "Okay. The point, though, is that we'll let them know, so that, first, they can radio ahead to the other boat so that Steve knows you're safe and second, we can figure out what to do. It's better than sitting here, though, isn't it?"

John leaned forward, trying to read the boy's expression. It seemed unusually contained for such a small boy. "We could probably call your Mum, too, in case she's worried?" he offered tentatively. "Do you know the number?"

The boy's face lit up and John gave him a smile and then creaked to his feet (his knees didn't bend like they used to) and held out a hand. "We'll just walk over to the ticket counter together, all right?"

They crossed the pavement and John politely circled around the queue to talk to staff member guarding the entrance. "This young fellow has a ticket, but got left behind somehow," he said.

The girl bent forward, long braid swinging down over her shoulder. "Well, who would leave behind such a handsome gentleman?"

Andy didn't seem ready to volunteer any information, so John said, "Apparently it was a friend named Steve. I'm guessing he's on a boat that left already, so maybe you could send ahead? And meantime, can we use your phone? It would ease Andy's mind if he could call his Mum, if that's possible? I left my phone home today."

The young lady (Jenny, according to her name tag) reached out and ruffled Andy's hair and said. "Of course!" She brought them back behind the rope and gestured to the office phone while she went to whisper to another crew member. John smiled down at the lost boy. "So, let's call your Mum, then, shall we?"

Andy dialed the number himself and John could hear the breathless response as the call was answered. The mother's frantic query of "Andy! Where are you?" came ringing over the wires and lifted John's eyebrows. Maybe Steve wasn't an adult after all, but another kid? Were they playing hooky today, too?

He listened to the stuttering answers as the boy's mum apparently went ballistic at the other end of the phone line and pointed to the phone with a "can I take that" expression. Andy looked relieved and told his mother to hang on while he handed the phone to John.

"Hello? You're Andy's mum? My name is John Watson and I'm here at the Thames River Cruise slip. I found Andy sitting alone outside with a ticket in his hand. I'm guessing he got left behind?"

_"Quite the contrary, Mr. Watson, he's not supposed to be there at all. I've been frantic! How did he get there, do you know? Did he tell you?"_

John gave the boy a reassuring smile. "He didn't say, no, but he mentioned something about Steve? Is that a friend of his?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then her voice came over the line, no longer frantic. _"Steve? Oh my God."_ Her voice was barely above a whisper. _"But he's not there now?"_

Reacting to the fear in her voice, John said, "No. Is there a problem?"

_"Yes. That is … I …"_

"Let me guess," he said soothingly into the phone, "It's complicated?"

A harsh laugh. _"You could say that, yes. Look, I don't know who you are, but please, do not let Steve _near_ my child. Please. He could … they … God, I don't know what to do, but you can't let them get Andy."_

John had frozen, now, senses on high alert as his over-used adrenalin glands kicked into gear so that he automatically looked to scan the crowd outside the slip. "They?" he asked.

No sound from the other end of the phone line, and then a whisper of movement, as if she had nodded, unable to speak. "Are you in trouble?" John asked her gently.

_"Yes,"_ she said with a sob. _"I work at Jenkins Pharmaceutical and I've been getting … pressured … to provide formulas to … I don't even know who they are. Steve is my ex-boyfriend, and I hadn't realized … he only dated me because of my job, but I kept saying no. I never thought he'd take Andy!"_

John's muscles had tightened as she spoke, so that he found he was standing straighter, on alert. "Have you told anyone?"

_"No! They said they would hurt Andy if I told anyone. Please … you can't let them near him."_

John covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Andy, did Steve tell you where he was going?"

"Tower Hill," the boy said with a whisper.

John nodded. "Jenny?" he called. "Did you radio ahead? Is Steve on another boat?"

The girl turned, braid flipping over her shoulder. "Nobody seems to be looking for a lost child," she said quietly, resting her hand on Andy's head.

John thought hard. If Andy's getting lost had somehow thwarted a kidnapping, it would make sense for Steve not to make a fuss, but that would make finding him harder. He spoke into the phone, "Mrs … Fellows … do you have a photo of Steve? You do? Okay, I'm going to give you the number for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I want you to send him that picture and tell him that John Watson will explain." He gave her Greg's number and said he would ring her right back.

Hanging up, he said to Jenny, "Right. We need to make sure that Steve doesn't get off whatever boat he's on, but we need a few minutes to get an officer over there. Can you do that?" Surprised, she nodded and turned back to the radio while he dialed the phone again.

"Don't worry, Andy," he told the boy who looked both frightened and impressed. "It's going to be okay. Greg?" He turned to the phone as it was answered. "It's John. Look, I stumbled on a kidnapping attempt and need you to make sure the kidnapper doesn't get away."

_"What? John? Where the hell are you? Sherlock's going crazy looking for you…"_

"I'm at the Embankment slip for the Thames River Cruise with young Andy Fellows," John told him. "You should be getting a photo any second now from his mum. The picture is of her ex-boyfriend Steve, who's been pressuring her to leak confidential information from Jenkins Pharmaceuticals. I think he tried to make off with Andy as a way of coercing her, except Andy got away or got lost or something."

_"And you just stumbled onto this?"_ Greg's voice was disbelieving.

'Yes, Greg. All I did was stop because I saw a lost boy. I had no idea there was a kidnapping involved—which is exactly why I need you to catch him. He should be on the river cruise boat on its way to the Tower Hill slip _right now_. Can't we go into explanations _after_ we catch the man so this nice boy and his mother can relax?"

There was a little bluster, but John could already hear the flurry of activity in the background as Greg gave his orders. _"You'll stay with the boy?"_

"Of course," John said, "At least until you or his Mum arrives." He disconnected before Greg could grill him about why he was there or what he was doing. He glanced down at Andy, who was watching him gravely. "I'm gonna be in trouble," he told him. "I'm kind of playing hooky today and nobody was supposed to know."

Andy's eyes widened, but then he started to smile, matching John's grin. "I didn't know grown-ups did that."

"We're not supposed to. We're supposed to be responsible and go to work and raise our kids, but," John leaned forward. "Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes, it's still more fun to skive off than to do what you're supposed to do. But don't tell your Mum I said so."

Jenny had been listening with a smile. "It sounds like it's a good thing you did, today."

John shrugged. Yes, it turned out better for Andy, but now he was going to have to deal with explanations and Sherlock … because he just _knew_Sherlock was going to hear about this, and his day out would be over. But all he said was, "There goes my chance at a river cruise."

Jenny looked at him thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't know. It seems to me you've done a good deed here and deserve to be rewarded. I don't see why we couldn't get you on a boat once Andy here is taken care of."

"Really?" John's good mood came flooding back. "You'd do that?"

"If you can talk your way out of having to do the paperwork with the police, I'll see you get your ride."

John beamed at her. "It's a deal."

#

Events moved quickly after that. He called Andy's mum back and told her the police were coming, and that they had sent someone ahead to intercept Steve. He arranged for her to come here to meet Andy and Lestrade, and by then, he could hear the sirens.

Greg came bustling in with his usual look of stressed impatience. "John. What on earth have you been up to, today? I keep getting calls…"

"From Sherlock? Sorry about that. I forgot my phone this morning."

Greg nodded. "I know. He called me to trace the call you made to work this morning because he was worried you'd got yourself kidnapped again or something. I think he almost had a conniption when he heard you were at Heathrow … and that reminds me. How on earth did you know about the pickpocketing ring?"

John was surprised. "The what ring?"

"The ring of thieves that's been preying on travelers at Heathrow and Gatwick," Greg said, sounding equally surprised.

"I don't know what … all I did was stop a kid from stealing a wallet."

Eyebrows raised, Greg nodded. "Yeah, and the kid was a part of a bigger organization. Sherlock spotted the kid's contact and, well, it unraveled pretty quickly after that, but everybody's giving you credit. Something about the tip of the spear. You didn't know?"

"Honestly, no," John told him. "I was just trying to enjoy a day off for a change." He saw Jenny trying to catch his eye and realized it was time for the next boat to leave. "Which reminds me…

#


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock, working on Mycroft's (reluctant) information that John had left the Tube at Westminster, strode out of the station, trying to deduce John's direction.

Scanning the pavement, the familiar buildings, he considered—John had just broken up a pickpocketing ring, so where would he go next? New Scotland Yard would make sense, but there were closer Tube stops. Though John did enjoy walking and it was an abnormally temperate day.

Except, why would John leave the scene of the crime just to head to NSY headquarters? Not to mention that he had only been involved in capturing the one, lone pickpocket. He hadn't seemed concerned about the rest of the gang. He hadn't even mentioned it to the security guard, but had seemed content with his single capture

It made no sense! If he had got wind of a crime—especially a complicated one—he would have called Sherlock, wouldn't he? It's not like the man couldn't have found a pay phone. Even if he'd been annoyed with Sherlock this morning (was he?), John wouldn't be so petulant as to exclude him from a case. Would he? No, of course he wouldn't. John might be stubborn but he was not stupid.

Still, something must have brought him here, so what was it?

His phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a text from Mycroft. "_The River_," was all it said, but it was enough. He supposed that Mycroft did have some uses.

He hurried along the pavement, watching for clues or signs that John had been there. He wondered if his flatmate was in any danger. Could that gang of pickpockets be working here, too? It would be bold, so close to the center of the city, but the area was rife with tourists. Maybe John had left his wallet and phone on purpose so they couldn't be lifted? Perhaps he had a dummy wallet with just a few bills to use as bait? It would explain why there was so little cash in his real wallet, currently in Sherlock's pocket.

Striding along, a bustle of uniforms his attention. A crime scene? Maybe John was there?

And, picking up his pace, he hurried forward.

#

"So you're telling me you want to ditch the traumatized kid just so you can go on a bloody river cruise?" Lestrade's voice practically dripped with disbelief.

John rubbed the back of his head, trying to fight down the obscure sense of guilt. (He'd forgotten this particular cost to the joys of playing hooky—he had always, always felt guilty, no matter how good a time he'd had.) "It's not like that, Greg. Andy's fine, his Mum's on the way, and you've got everything under control. You don't need me."

"It's not a matter of need, John," Greg said, protesting. "I just want to understand what's going on."

John just knew he looked sheepish, no matter how hard he tried to keep his face straight. "I'm … kind of playing hooky," he finally said. "Sherlock and I just finished the Matthews case last night. I've barely slept in five days and then I got a call to the surgery this morning. I was going to say no, but Sherlock was being … Sherlock … and I couldn't stay in the flat because there was no way he was going to let me sleep, so I started to go anyway. As soon as I was outside, though … I just couldn't do it. I called in sick to work and took off to have the day to myself. The last thing I wanted to do was end up at another bloody crime scene!"

"You prevented two crimes today," Greg said slowly, "And this is your idea of a day off? I'm a cop, and even I can't say that."

John gave a short laugh. "Yeah, well, cops don't usually get called in until after the crimes, do they? I honestly didn't mean to … things just … happen."

"Yeah, they certainly do around you and Sherlock, don't they?" Greg asked, waving away any attempt at answering the rhetorical question. "And what the hell am I supposed to tell him? You know he's going to show up any minute. He's got a sixth sense."

"Like a bat," John said agreeably. "Just tell him you took over and didn't need me anymore. In fact, you don't even need to tell him I was here at all. Come on, Greg. The day's half over already." He couldn't help the wheedling note in his voice.

Andy spoke up. "You should let him leave. Jenny was so nice about letting him on the boat, but if he doesn't leave now, he won't be able to and he was so nice."

Greg looked down at the boy in surprise. "You don't want him to stay?"

"He doesn't have to," Andy said. Then he grinned, "And anyway, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

John couldn't help it. He laughed out loud and only just resisted ruffling Andy's hair himself. (He'd hated that as a kid.) "There, you see, Greg? And it's not like you don't know where to find me later, yeah?"

Greg's shoulders slumped, but he had an indulgent smile on his face as he said, "Yeah, okay. Go on," and waved John off toward the boat ramp.

#

Sherlock talked himself past the constable easily, and when he saw a familiar grey head nearby, he angled that way. "Lestrade? What's going on? Anything interesting? Is John here?"

He should have felt insulted at the way Lestrade groaned. "Is that all you can think about today? I've got other concerns, Sherlock."

He looked around, taking in the concerned group clustered around a small boy. "Attempted kidnapping?"

"How did you … never mind. Yes, but luckily all's well. We're just waiting to hear that the kidnapper's been picked up—and for Mrs. Fellows to arrive for her son. We'll have some questions for her, of course. Apparently the boy was being taken for leverage. His mother works for Jenkins Pharmaceuticals, and the kidnapper—her ex—wanted her to pass on secrets. I don't know yet if he was working alone."

Sherlock nodded, absently. It sounded like most of the puzzle had been solved already, so … dull. Still, it would be polite to express interest, so he asked, "How did you find him?"

Lestrade frowned. "The kidnapper—Steve—was taking the boy on the river cruise but they got separated, somehow. I'm still a little fuzzy on the details on that, but the boy was found by … er … a good Samaritan who thought he was just an ordinary lost boy. It wasn't until they called the boy's mother that they realized he'd actually been kidnapped. They called me to ask me to pick up Steve at the next cruise stop at Tower Hill and … that's everything but the statements."

Sherlock was only half listening as he scanned the crowd, keeping an eye out for John. He never could resist a crime scene, could he? If he was anywhere in the area, it would pull him over, wouldn't it? Wasn't there a saying about moths and flames that was relevant?

Realizing that Lestrade was waiting for some response, he mustered, "That was astute of him, a random good Samaritan. Are you sure he's not involved?"

Lestrade smirked slightly, which was odd, as he shook his head. "Absolutely not."

Sherlock lifted one brow. "I didn't meet the man, Inspector, all I did was suggest a possibility. Why is that amusing? Where is he? Giving a statement of some kind?"

"No, he's not here."

Odd. The Inspector looked actually uncomfortable. Embarrassed, almost. Had he let the man leave before he was ready? Why would he have done that? "And here you're constantly insisting on proper protocols and police paperwork, Lestrade," he said, a teasing note to his voice.

"He needed to … that is, he had … oh, hell. It was John, Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock immediately looked back at the group surrounding the young boy. "You're telling me that John thwarted a _kidnapping_ today?"

His voice might have been louder than he'd intended, because a number of heads turned his way, including the little boy, who looked more amused than traumatized.

"Yes, Sherlock," Lestrade said in that way he used when talking to a child. "John stopped to help a lost child and it turned out to be something more than that. We had it all under control, though, so there wasn't any reason for him to stick around. He said he was tired from the Matthews case, and it's not like I can't find him later if I need him. So yes, I let him leave, not that it's any of your business. He's a grown man, Sherlock."

"But …" Sherlock wasn't even sure what to say. "I needed to…"

"To what?"

"He's been avoiding me all day, and I don't know why," Sherlock said, hating the way he sounded like a petulant boy.

Greg snorted. "I don't think he's avoiding you, Sherlock. He's just been quite busy."

"Doing your job for you, it appears," Sherlock said, tongue edged in acid. "I just don't see why he excluded me."

When he spoke, Greg's voice was warm with years of patience. "From what he said, he just stumbled on those two crimes today. He saw a pickpocket and a lost child and stepped up to help. He wasn't trying to solve the crimes of the world, or anything. If he was, I am quite sure he would have included you, Sherlock."

Sherlock found he couldn't look at him. "Then why did he leave before I got here?"

"Did he know you were coming?" Lestrade asked matter-of-factly, and when Sherlock shook his head, said, "Then it's not like he was avoiding you. He just seemed like he was enjoying having a day off for a change. People do that, you know. It's nothing personal, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, not convinced. He'd had far too many people walk away from him over the years not to be sensitive … or, rather, he would be if it was something he cared about. Which he didn't, of course. This was just … an exercise in consideration for his flatmate, nothing more. "Where did he go, then?"

Greg just shook his head. "He said he had things to do, but didn't go into detail," was all he said, but Sherlock saw his eyes slide toward the empty boat slip.

John had taken the river cruise? But … why? Why would he do that? Unless he suspected the kidnapper was on the boat and wanted to be sure he wouldn't get away? Lestrade had said they had someone waiting to pick the man up, but it would be just like John to ride along to make sure without making a fuss.

With a nod to Greg, Sherlock stepped forward.

"One ticket on the next boat, please."

#


	6. Chapter 6

This was perfect, John thought. Sunshine. Fresh air. The gentle lapping of the water on the side of the boat.

And best of all, he was sitting _still_. He could spend all day doing this. He'd never understood the appeal of sailing before, but suddenly, the idea of spending a day with water and sun made total sense. (Though, he was sure actual sailing was nowhere near this relaxing, however pleasant. But that was okay. His skills with knots were more along the lines of tying up criminals than securing boat lines, anyway.)

It really was a beautiful day, he thought, closing his eyes and just letting the motion of the boat rock him in the warm breeze. Why had he never done this before? Obviously his stupid pride at not doing 'tourist' things had been misplaced all these years. Tourists clearly had some good ideas. Sailing down the Thames instead of struggling to stand on the Tube or fighting traffic in a cab? Brilliant.

The motion really was almost too soothing. He could sit here all day as the city slipped past the bow, all its troubles over … there. Not crossing the moving water to bother this rather idyllic passage.

He was so tired. How long had it been since he had slept? Days, it felt like, and the caffeine and sugar from breakfast had long since worn off. He should have grabbed something for lunch, but, well … Andy.

Eyes still closed, he frowned. Poor kid. He could understand that a child might willingly go for a jaunt with his mother's (ex-) boyfriend, but what had made him slip away? Had he gotten lost? Or had Steve ditched him? If Steve had been trying to coerce Andy's mum into giving away corporate secrets, could he have had a crisis of conscience when it came down to it? Or had Andy cottoned on somehow and realized what was going on?

He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright sun, and shook his head. No, he was not worrying about this. Lestrade had it under control. Andy was safe, his mum was on the way, and the police were picking up Steve. All was well.

He gave himself a mental shake and looked around, momentarily having lost his sense of relaxation. He glanced around at his fellow passengers, smiling happy families pointing to the Globe Theater as they sailed by. It seemed like everyone was smiling and taking photos. (Why did tourists insist on carrying cameras _everywhere_?) He tried to remember the last time he'd had a holiday, the last time he'd traveled for nothing more than entertainment or a sense of adventure. (The army didn't count.) He could scoff at Tourists all he wanted—and there were days when he hated their cluelessness as they meandered around his city, getting in the way, getting into trouble. But still, there was something pleasant about the idea of just traveling to see new things, spend time with loved ones. Just to do something new, something fun. When was the last time he'd had fun? He tried looking back, past this week-from-hell, and finally gave up. He was just too tired and too darned relaxed.

He looked around, admiring all the happy faces, and then paused. Those two men standing near the back of the boat didn't look happy at all. Nor did they have cameras or maps or sensible shoes … none of the usual tourist paraphernalia.

He watched the way they were carefully scanning the crowd, looking particularly at each dark-haired little boy. Boys like Andy.

He closed his eyes in a long blink and cursed himself for being so stupid. Steve hadn't been working alone. That had been obvious, but why hadn't he realized that he would be meeting his confederates on the sodding boat?

Because it didn't make sense, that's why. Even in a friendly kidnapping, you're going to want any exchanges to be made in as much privacy as possible—not in the middle of a crowd of camera-toting families. And it was an earlier boat they'd had tickets for—not this one.

But, still …

He stood up and stretched, then ambled down the aisle toward the back, eyes fixed on the river bank, but taking mental notes … yes, that was definitely a gun hidden beneath that man's jacket. Army training or not, his blood boiled at the thought of a man carrying a gun into the middle of a crowd of happy people just trying to enjoy the day in his city. _His_ city, damn it.

He started to reach for his phone, and then remembered that it was sitting on his desk back in Baker Street. So, contacting Lestrade wouldn't work, then. Unless …

He approached a woman sitting on her own. Unlike most of his fellow passengers, she was unencumbered by cameras and shopping bags, but just looked like a person enjoying the sunshine, like he was. "I hate to ask," he said with an apologetic smile, "But is there any chance I could borrow your phone to send a text? It's important, and I left mine at home today like an idiot."

She blinked up at him, trying to decide if he was trying to chat her up. He tried to look charming and innocuous. "I promise I won't run off with your phone, but it's fairly urgent." He fought the urge to look back over his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief when she nodded and fished her phone from her purse.

He sent a quick text to Lestrade to tell him Steve's confederates were on board, and then thanked the woman and hurried to the bridge (is that what they called it on a boat?). He asked the staff if they'd heard anything on the radio about the lost boy? They nodded and he introduced himself, explaining that he'd just seen two men he was sure were involved, and was there any way to detain them when the boat docked? "The police should be at the dock waiting, but just in case … I don't want these two to get away but I don't want to make a fuss with all these civilia… er … passengers around."

They assured him they would do what they could, and John smiled and headed back to his seat to find the woman whose phone he'd borrowed waiting for him. "I think this text is for you?"

" _What the hell are you up to today, John? I sent on ahead, but for God's sake, don't do anything stupid. And, S is on the boat right behind you. Thought you should know. GL._"

John groaned and thanked her. "What's going on?" she asked.

He glanced back at the two men still standing stiffly at the railing. "I can't really go into detail, but there was an incident about a lost child back at Embankment, and I think those two men are involved. I was just letting the police know they were on board.

She started to turn to look, but he stopped her. "No, don't. I don't want them to be suspicious of anything before we dock."

"Are you a detective, or something?"

He gave a half-smile. "Or something pretty much defines it, yeah. The text I sent was to Detective Inspector Lestrade, though, who's in charge."

"A Detective Inspector for a lost child?" She sounded skeptical.

"Well … more like attempted kidnapping," John said, "Which is why I _don't_ want to tip my hand and make them suspicious."

She nodded slowly. "And who's this S he's warning you about?"

He stifled a sigh. "That would be Sherlock, my flatmate. He tends to make things … complicated, so I was hoping he wouldn't get … hell, I have no idea how he even got involved, but I'm not exactly surprised that he did. All I care about is making sure the police pick these two up at Tower Hill."

Her eyes had widened. "Sherlock? Like … Sherlock Holmes? That means you're …"

"John Watson," he said, holding out his hand with a smile. The fact that people really read his blog never failed to amaze him.

"Emily Hoover," she said. "I absolutely love your blog."

John's smile grew even wider as he took in her bright, interested eyes. (Gorgeous eyes.). This really was a wonderful day.

He got so caught up talking (all right, flirting) with her, he barely noticed that the boat was docking at Tower Hill. Well, not until one of the suspects tried to flee when the police came on board. John barely interrupted his story about the (literally) one-armed bandit who'd tried to rob a jewelry store as he tripped and held the man until he could be cuffed. He just modestly shrugged to say anyone would have done the same, and then resumed his seat, never missing a beat.

He was deep in conversation again as the two men were taken away in handcuffs. And he was more than happy to ride along to the next stop. After all, this had been the only thing missing today—good company (i.e., not complaining, bossing, ordering, or sulking company) to go with the sunshine. It was well worth traveling on to Greenwich to enjoy a little more flirting time. For the first time all day, he didn't feel tired at all.

#

Sherlock paced at the back of the boat.

He still couldn't understand what John was thinking. Lestrade had said he was enjoying a day off, but if that were true, why wasn't he back at the flat? If John was tired (and the Matthews case had been grueling, even for Sherlock), wouldn't a day of traipsing around London just make him more tired? It didn't make sense.

Although … He thought back to when John had left this morning. He'd left half his breakfast on the table and had hurried out as if he'd been angry. Sherlock had been playing his violin … well, playing _at_ his violin at the time, and had wondered at the vehemence with which John had shut the door. It was that concern which had launched this entire endeavor of trying to find him. Hmm. If he'd been particularly tired, it was possible that the random violin was more irritating than usual … wasn't it? Perhaps he hadn't felt that he _could_ relax at the flat.

Did it therefore follow that John was trying to avoid him? Lestrade had said no—that John didn't even know Sherlock was following, that he was just enjoying his day off.

Sherlock shook his head in disgust. That was a phrase he'd never understood. A day without work was dull, boring, and Sherlock _hated_ being bored. Without input, his brain spun wildly without having anywhere to go, like a car mired in the mud. How could people actually enjoy such a thing?

He glanced around at the crowd of (god help him) tourists laughing and taking pictures, all clearly enjoying themselves. But why? How? How could they all be so happy doing nothing?

Sherlock considered this, watching as people pointed out points of interest, chattering back and forth as they made new discoveries, however banal. Still… being tourists, they were seeing new things, which he supposed was the opposite of being dull. It might not be constructive, but it wasn't quite the same as doing nothing. What was that old phrase? A change is as good as a rest? The fact that they were being stimulated by new sights and sounds would work to refresh their senses, like sherbet clearing the palate between courses of a meal. In their own, simplistic way, they were only doing what Sherlock tried to do on a daily basis—finding something _new_.

Was it possible that John was doing much the same thing? That, tired though he was, unable to relax in the flat, he was in fact doing nothing more than taking advantage of an unusually temperate London day to refresh his senses with a new perspective?

With this thought in mind, he cast his mind back to review John's actions for the day.

Impossible though it seemed, maybe John really _was_ just trying to enjoy a day off?

#


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was feeling unusually introspective as he disembarked with the rest of the passengers, allowing himself to go along with the crowd rather than pushing on ahead. He was thinking hard about the so-called appeal of relaxation as he scanned the crowds for John, but saw nothing of note except for the three (three?) handcuffed men being bustled into panda cars.

Despite himself, he smiled. He had to give John credit. Trying to "relax" or not, the man was learning how to observe.

He was passing the officers when his attention was caught by the sound of John's name. "…Watson can throw a punch. He barely glanced up from chatting up that bird and still took that man down. Never seen anything like it."

Sherlock stopped to address the man. "Can you tell me where I can find John … that is, Doctor Watson?"

The officer glanced at him. "No, sorry, mate. He didn't get off the boat."

Sherlock blinked. "But he was supposed … you're saying that John did not disembark here?"

"No, was he supposed to?"

Sherlock wished he had an answer to that question. He still had no idea what John was actually trying to accomplish today. If it was "relaxing," then almost anything was possible. He had no idea what activities John would consider recreational—outside watching telly or reading—but those were activities for the flat, not … out. (Had John really gone to Heathrow for no reason other than to look at planes?) He refrained from snapping at the man, though, but instead stepped to the side to consider.

It didn't surprise him to hear John had been flirting—again—and if recreation was his sole goal for the day, then riding along to the boat's next destination would make as much sense as any other destination. (Wasn't the point to be random?). It would also mean that Sherlock's presence might not be appreciated. Sherlock had certainly heard enough complaints about his intrusions on John's dates. But could a random flirtation on a boat be considered a date?

It was possible that his best decision right now would be to turn around and go home.

And yet … he still had John's phone. And his (almost empty) wallet. (And really, if he hadn't been using a blind to bait pickpockets, why was his wallet almost empty? And since it was, how was he funding this jaunt across the city? And…? So many questions.)

He hated having unanswered questions.

Decision made, he hailed a cab. "Greenwich," he said.

#

John strolled down the ramp, a smile on his lips. He said goodbye to Emily, wished her luck at her appointment, and went on his way, her number in his pocket. This really was turning out to be a perfect day.

He looked around, trying to decide which way to go, when his stomach's rumbling decided him. He stopped in a shop and picked up a sandwich and headed for the park. That would be ideal, he thought. Sitting down sounded ridiculously appealing, considering he'd just been sitting on the boat. He hadn't been on his feet all day—not even close—but it was starting to feel like he had. He blamed the lack of sleep, of course, though the doctor side of him kept bleating on about proper nutrition.

Finding a likely bench, he sat down to watch the people going by (though he hoped he wouldn't see any more crimes in progress. Two in one day were enough, weren't they?)

And, really, what were the odds? Before he met Sherlock, he had never stumbled across a single crime except when he'd chased after a purse-snatcher when he was 17. (Yes, he'd helped invade Afghanistan, too, but wars weren't exactly the same thing as crimes—or just on a really big scale.) Had he been blindly walking past crimes-in-progress his whole life, or was today just a fluke?

He bit into his chicken sandwich as he considered that, considered how much he had changed since he met Sherlock. There was no question his world-view had changed. It was similar to how, once he became a doctor, he started noticing illnesses and injuries that he never would have spotted. It was an occupational hazard, he supposed, just like house painters probably noticed peeling paint and tailors noticed ill-fitting clothes.

He just wasn't entirely sure when he'd started really _noticing_ crime, though. It had sort of drifted into his consciousness in his months living with Sherlock. Outside of actual crime scenes, though, he just hadn't realized.

Thinking of Sherlock, though, reminded him of Lestrade's text. He couldn't say he was entirely _surprised_ to hear that Sherlock had been there, but he wasn't entirely sure _why_. So far as Sherlock knew, John had been at work all day. That was part of what had made this day so perfect—being able to go off and do things on his own without Sherlock's constant questions and deductions about Why.

John had accepted that Sherlock had little awareness of personal boundaries and that his curiosity was unlimited. Between Sherlock at home and Mycroft's CCTV cameras, he had even come to accept the feeling of being under more-or-less constant surveillance. It was rather like living with a pair of very controlling parents who wanted to know his whereabouts at all times—and, considering their lifestyle, he couldn't even say that was a bad thing. With all the times he'd been kidnapped since meeting Sherlock, he was frankly surprised they hadn't injected him with a GPS tracker in his sleep.

No, constant surveillance was just part of the price of living with Sherlock Holmes, and he was fine with that.

Today, though … well, this day off had just … happened. The perfect confluence of events to give him time on his own, out of the flat, out of touch, without worrying Sherlock or raising his suspicions. By all rights, he should have simply thought John was at work, and as long as John returned to 221B at his usual time, Sherlock would have been none the wiser.

Well, okay, that was probably not true—he would have spotted John's excursion within minutes by something obscure like spots of salt water on his jacket or traces of jet fuel in his hair. God only knew, really, but the point was that Sherlock shouldn't have had any reason to be out looking for John. Not yet.

He knew he'd joked with Lestrade about Sherlock showing up at any time, but he hadn't really expected it. It was probably his own fault somehow. Maybe Sherlock had tried to call and realized John's phone was still sitting at home? Lestrade had said that Sherlock had been calling him and that he'd known about Heathrow. (John still couldn't believe that kid had been part of an actual crime ring.)

Crumpling his wrapper and cramming it back into the paper bag, John smiled. He'd helped stop a ring of pickpockets and foiled a kidnapping—all because he'd decided to take a day off. What were the odds?

He leaned back, face tilted to the sun. He could almost feel the vitamin D flooding his system as he listened to the sounds of children playing. School was obviously out for the day now, he thought, and he wondered if he should maybe head home. Enjoyable though this day had been, his week was catching up to him again and he had the feeling that if he sat here much longer, he wouldn't be able to get up at all.

It really was nice here in the sun, he thought. If he relaxed much more, he was going to fall asleep, and that sounded so appealing….

His eyes jolted open as the screaming started.

#

John was on his feet before his brain had even registered the sound of a crying child. He gave his head a shake. His reflexes were still on a hair-trigger after the stressful week, he told himself. It was just a child who fell, playing. Nothing to worry about.

And yet, the crying hadn't stopped. He turned his head, searching. A simple skinned knee wouldn't generate this much distress, would it?

Over there—a young woman crouched over a little girl who was sobbing frankly heart-wrenching screams.

Hesitantly, but unable to keep away, John headed toward them. He could always keep walking, he told himself, if it was something minor. He didn't _need_ to get involved, after all, just because he was a doctor.

Yeah, he didn't even believe that as he thought it.

He made his way toward them, moving slowly so as not to frighten them. There was no blood in sight, so that was good, but the way the little girl was holding her arm … broken, maybe? Sprained?

"I'm a doctor," he told them, "I was wondering if there was anything I could do?"

The young woman looked up, blinking at him through her fringe. "She just fell and started screaming, but I don't know _why_. It didn't look like that bad a fall." Her voice sounded slightly frantic.

John crouched down in front of the little girl. She looked about 5 years old, with beautiful brown eyes behind the tears. "My name's John," he told her, "Can I look at your arm?"

Tearfully, she shook her head, holding her arm closer to her, but sobbing all the harder at the renewed pain. He took in the angle of her shoulder, the already-visible swelling of her wrist, the way her fingers clutched into a fist. He knelt down and leaned forward. "I know it hurts, but I'm a doctor. I just want to see if I can help."

He gave her an encouraging smile, all while appreciating the irony that he had skived off work to avoid screaming children, and here he was … ah, work. Of course. He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a lolly. "It hurts," he said again, "But if you're brave and let me take a look, I'd bet your Mum would let you have this—because brave little girls deserve lollys, don't you think?"

Her eyes were wide now, shining with tears, but the sobbing had stopped. Her mother moved around behind her and wrapped her arms around her and the little girl settled back, taking a deep breath before nodding. "Good girl," John told her as he reached gently for her arm. "What's your name?"

"Abby," she said, whimpering slightly as he supported her arm in his hands.

"That's a beautiful name," he told her, turning her arm slightly as he felt along the bone. "Not that I'm surprised, a beautiful girl like you deserves such a pretty name. How old are you?"

Well practiced now with sick children instead of soldiers, he plied her with questions to distract her as he examined her arm—not broken, he thought thankfully. Not even a bad sprain.

He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. "Now, my flatmate teases me for carrying these," he told her, "But they come in handy."

With a few practiced movements, he folded the handkerchief and then wrapped it around her wrist and arm, supporting the strained muscle before handing over the lolly. "Though you shouldn't take candy from strangers," he told her with a teasing voice and a shared smile with her mum. "Not unless your Mum says it's okay."

"It's nothing serious," he told the worried mother as he creaked his way to his tired feet again. "Not even a sprain, just a bad wrench. You could stop at a chemist to get a proper wrap, but it should be fine in a day or so. Icing it will help with the swelling." He gave the instructions automatically as he glanced around the park.

Ah. Perfect. He told them to wait and then hurried over to the ice cream vendor near the street. "You wouldn't have a handful of ice to spare, would you? That little girl just hurt her wrist and I'd to get some ice on it to bring down the swelling."

Minutes later he was back with a plastic bag of ice from the obliging man and was holding it to Abby's sore wrist. "Thank you so much," her mother said with far more gratitude than he thought was necessary, but then, no parent wanted to see her child hurt, and he knew better than most how relieving it could be when someone took charge.

He tried to wave off her thanks, but conceded when she insisted on buying him an ice cream from the friendly vendor. It made her feel better, and, well, who could say no to ice cream on a perfect afternoon?

John excused himself soon after, though. Abby was playing and barely noticing her wrist, and he was running out of polite small talk with the grateful mother, so begging an appointment, he excused himself and strode off, just as if he wasn't starting to feel truly exhausted again.

He was starting to calculate just how many train changes it was going to take to drag himself home when a sign caught his eye. Looking past the arrow, he looked at the building up ahead and smiled.

Perfect.

#


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock paid off the cab (what had happened to all his cash?) as he got out at the Greenwich river cruise dock. Standing on the pavement, he looked around and tried to think like John. Assuming that John had not had a firm destination—that he was, in fact, just trying to relax—where would he have gone?

Turning on his heel, he surveyed the area and was caught by the glimmer of green from the park. That seemed sufficiently recreational, he thought. He had seen John sitting in parks before, and it seemed a likely scenario with today's sunshine.

He was just crossing the street when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and made a face. Mycroft. "What?" he asked abruptly as he answered it.

"_Have you considered just leaving the poor man alone, Sherlock? He lives with you, after all. Surely he's earned a day to himself_"

"Very amusing, Mycroft. I am simply trying to return his phone and wallet."

"_He hasn't needed them so far, Sherlock. You're just using that as an excuse._"

Sherlock pulled the phone away so he could give it a dirty look. Why was Mycroft so insufferable? "That's not true. I left the flat this morning with the most innocent of motives. It's not my fault John has made it so difficult to make the delivery. It's not like I can call him to let him know I'm looking for him, can I?"

There was a smile in Mycroft's voice as he replied. "_I could help you with that, you know. My people are excellent with phone booths._"

"Let's not traumatize him by reminding him of the first time he met you, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled into the phone. "He's trying to enjoy himself, after all."

"_So you've finally realized that, have you? After chasing the man across the city for no reason?_"

"I had a reason, Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly and carefully into the phone. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a flatmate to find."

He pushed the End Call button several times for emphasis before shoving the mobile back in his pocket. Then he glared at the nearest CCTV camera for good measure. The nerve of Mycroft, interfering when all he was trying to do was to be a good flatmate. Wasn't that what Mycroft wanted in the first place? It wasn't like he was _chasing_ John, after all. He was just following him.

Oh, sure, there was a puzzle involved. John's actions had been so uncharacteristic, he couldn't resist trying to understand them. Besides, if John was going to chase criminals—advertently or not—he should at least have his phone with him. It's not like Sherlock was going to intrude. He just wanted to make his delivery and be on his way. He had had plans for the day too, after all. True, he might not be able to recall what they had been at this precise moment, but he was a grown man with better things to do than chase a recalcitrant flatmate about London without a reason.

Honestly, Mycroft was so irritatingly wrong. But then, what else was new?

He entered the park and started looking for a familiar blond head on one of the benches. John must be tired by now, and his leg did still give him trouble from time to time (psychosomatic though it was). He was most likely was sitting down.

Sherlock paced along, keeping a close watch, but—as was becoming too familiar today—saw no signs of John. Just children and their mothers, often traveling in packs. A boy clutching his school bag. A little girl with a bandaged … no. That wasn't a bandage. It was a handkerchief. And she was sucking on one of those generic lollys doctors hand out to sick children.

Sherlock was all too well acquainted with at least one doctor who carried handkerchiefs.

Putting on his friendliest smile, he approached them. "I see you hurt your arm," he ventured. "But it looks like it was taken care of."

The little girl nodded as her mother looked at him warily. "Yes, it was. Can I help you?"

Flashing another winning smile, Sherlock said, "I was just wondering if that was the work of my friend John. He's a doctor and I was expecting to meet him here in the park, but it looks like I missed him…." He let his voice trail off, leaving a conversational vacuum.

The mother's eyes had warmed now and she stroked the little girl's head. "Ah, yes, Dr. John. We had ice cream with him, didn't we Abby? After he helped with your arm." She looked back at Sherlock. "He only left about fifteen minutes ago. He seemed eager to get away, even though he'd been such a big help."

A hint of sincerity leached into his smile as Sherlock said, "He's modest that way. Did he say where he was going?"

"No, but he headed that way," she said, pointing.

With another smile at the little girl, Sherlock nodded and headed in the direction she'd indicated. Only fifteen minutes behind? He smiled to himself. The game was on.

#

John bought his ticket and walked into the auditorium as words swirled around in his head. "_It's primary school stuff._" "_With a little more knowledge of the solar system, you'd have solved this case a lot sooner_." "_Golem!_" "_The VanBuren Supernova._"

It had been years since he'd been to a planetarium. (Not counting that "visit" with the Golem. Only Sherlock Holmes would have been able to pick up any details from that particular encounter.) He'd always liked astronomy, though, as one of those theoretical kinds of sciences that didn't have any direct bearing on his career choices, outside some small practicality in celestial navigation. But still, spending an hour or so with the stars in a comfortable chair in a dark room sounded ideal.

As the show began and the stars started to circle overhead to the strains of Holst's Jupiter movement, he smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and began to drift.

Heavenly.

#

"John? John, wake up."

John groaned a bit. He was so comfortable. What was Sherlock doing? Was it a case? "What is it, Sherlock? I'm trying to sleep."

His flatmate's voice was amused as he said, "Yes, I know, but the nice people want their planetarium back."

Just like that, John was fully awake. Day off. Watching the stars. Dark room. Comfortable chair. "Oh, Christ. How long …"

Sherlock reached over and offered him a hand up and out of the reclining chair. "Through one showing. They didn't seem surprised that you had fallen asleep—their show must be incredibly boring—but they were impressed that you managed to stay unconscious as the rest of the audience left. All in all, they seemed a little hesitant to wake you."

John gave a half-hearted grin. "And you probably volunteered—never one to miss out on a chance to wake me up."

"Now, John," Sherlock said in a mildly protesting tone of voice as he started steering John toward the exit. "You wound me. I only ever wake you up when it's important."

"On purpose, maybe," John told him, "But by accident? All too often. Did you come all this way just so you could wake me?"

They paused in the lobby while John squinted and blinked at the light. (Why did the sun have to be so bloody bright?) Sherlock just watched him, a hint of uncertainty in his face. "You left your phone at home this morning. And your wallet."

"Oh. Right." John leaned against the wall and gave way to a massive yawn. "I was in such a rush to leave, I forgot them. What does that have to…"

"Once I realized, I headed to the surgery to return them, so you wouldn't be left penniless for lunch, but when I got there…."

"…They told you I had the day off," John finished, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe that chair hadn't been as comfortable as he'd thought. "Don't tell me you've been chasing me all day just to give them back? I would have gotten them at home later."

Sherlock actually looked petulant. "I was trying to be helpful."

John looked up at his friend, noting the slight crease in his forehead. "It was very nice of you," he said finally. "How long…"

"I just missed you at Heathrow, apparently," Sherlock told him. "And seem to have been just behind you most of the day. Why _were_you at Heathrow? It wasn't because of the pickpocketers?"

"No," John said. He couldn't help smiling. Sherlock had obviously been waiting all day to ask that question. "I went to watch the planes—it's something my dad and I did when I was a kid. There was this one, glorious day when we played hooky together … it's one of my fondest memories of him. It's not like we ever did a lot together. But when … today … it was such a gorgeous day … I just found myself there. Spotting a pickpocket was purely coincidental." He followed up with an urgent question of his own. "Was there really a ring of them? Or was Lestrade teasing?"

"Oh no, there definitely was. You somehow made the kid feel guilty—don't ask me how, since he was a seasoned pickpocket—and he turned evidence. By then of course, you were gone."

They were strolling out of the building by now, and John paused for a moment. "I didn't want to get any more involved than I had to—we just spent days dealing with the police—so I slipped away while they were returning the wallet."

Sherlock nodded. "And then you foiled a kidnapping."

John shrugged. "Andy did the hard part—he's the one who got away. I just stopped to help a lost child."

"And deduced that he was not merely lost, but had been taken without his mother's consent."

Another shrug. "Not until we'd actually called his mum. Until then, I thought he was just lost. I didn't do anything special. I was just trying to enjoy myself."

"Hmm. You've been helping people all day—including that little girl with the sprained wrist."

John just shook his head. "Because of course you know that, too." He looked up at his flatmate's face, trying to identify the shadow he saw there. "You do realize I didn't plan on any of it, right? It just happened? It's not like I was trying to exclude you."

"No, clearly you didn't need me at all today," Sherlock said with an edge to his voice. He thrust something into John's hands. "Here."

John fumbled, just managing to hang onto his phone and wallet. "Sherlock? What's …" But Sherlock was already striding away from the building, coat furling and unfurling in the breeze. Cursing, John hurried after. "Sherlock, stop, please. I'm too tired to run."

As if reluctantly, Sherlock slowed. "I came out solely to return your belongings, and now that I've done so, am leaving you alone. Isn't that what you wanted today?"

"No, that … That wasn't the point, Sherlock. It's not like I was trying to get away from you. I kept wanting to call you, but didn't have my … well, you know that." John stumbled over the words, but plowed ahead. "But honestly, I wasn't trying to avoid you or anything. I didn't plan any of this. It was just … I was so tired and you were screeching on your violin—and don't look at me like that. You know perfectly well that there's a difference between what you were doing this morning and actual music. And on practically no sleep for a week … I couldn't bear it. I really was going to go into work, but when I got outside … God, Sherlock, it was such a beautiful day, and I was really too tired to go be a doctor. Not to mention that it would have been irresponsible of me, since I was far too tired to be diagnosing anybody. It was totally spontaneous. I _never_ meant to exclude you. I didn't think you would even know until I got home tonight, and I only thought that would be good because you wouldn't be worrying—because I know you worry, even if you don't like to admit it."

He squinted up at his friend, wishing they'd stopped in the shade rather than bright sun. His eyes were still protesting the change from nice, dark planetarium to daylight.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "I was afraid you would think I was intruding. I didn't exactly mean to follow you all day, but … I might have overreacted a bit when I realized I had no idea where you were."

"And by overreacted, you mean…"

"I called Lestrade and convinced him to trace the call you made to the clinic back to Heathrow. So I went there, only to meet your newest fans who told me you'd left. So I tracked you to the river…"

"Tracked me? How?"

Sherlock looked downright ashamed. "Mycroft. He told me what stop you'd taken, and then I ran into Lestrade who told me you'd stopped a kidnapper and then taken a _cruise_." John pursed his lips. He hadn't thought Lestrade would tell on him, but Sherlock read that and said, "He didn't actually tell me. He just looked at the boat slip, so I bought a ticket for the next boat."

"And let me guess, got off at Tower Hill?"

"Yes, only to find you had yet more new fans and to learn you'd been flirting—again—and stayed on for Greenwich."

John tilted his head. "All this to return my wallet?"

"And your phone," Sherlock said. "Even if your crime-solving was unintentional, you could have found yourself in trouble, and the fact you didn't have it worried me."

John just laughed. "So, I've been having a lovely day off, and you've been spending the whole day working yourself into a lather worrying about me?"

Sherlock looked actually sheepish. "Well, it wasn't like I could call you, John."

John turned and started walking up the pavement. "No, that's true. Though I'm surprised Mycroft didn't offer." He gave another laugh at the resounding silence next to him. "He did offer, didn't he?"

"He can't resist inserting himself into my affairs," Sherlock said with a sniff.

"Of course," John said, giving Sherlock an affectionate bump with his shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved. And thanks to you, I've got my wallet back—what do you say we stop for an early dinner and head back to the flat? My treat?"

"Don't be silly, John. How can you afford to pay for anything? You have almost no money in that wallet."

John wasn't surprised that Sherlock had looked, but he opted not to be offended. "Why do you think I go to work in the first place, Sherlock? But, no worries. I still have some cash left from the money you gave me for the cab last night." He couldn't help but be delighted at the dawning comprehension on Sherlock's face as he realized how John had funded his day off. "I think you were as tired as I was."

Sherlock just shrugged it off. "It went to a good cause, that's what matters."

"Of course, by the time we pay for a cab back to Baker Street, I'll probably be broke again," John said, knowing he'd never get Sherlock on the Tube. "Unless you want to take the river cruise back? It's really quite relaxing. Apparently tourists have _some_ good ideas."

Sherlock just looked insulted, appalled, horrified. "I think not. I've ridden the damn thing once today and that was quite sufficient, thank you. Besides," he added, looking ahead, "I don't think transportation will be a problem."

John followed his gaze and saw a sleek, black car at the kerb. "I don't know if I should be grateful or appalled. You didn't ask him to follow me, did you?"

"Not once I knew you weren't in danger, but I don't need to remind you how my brother oversteps."

"No, that's true," John said as they approached the car and climbed in. He was completely flummoxed, though, when he looked across the seat as the car eased into traffic.

"Emily?"

#


	9. Chapter 9

"It's nice to see you again, Dr. Watson," Emily said with a smile. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. How did John know the name of one of Myc… oh, of course. "I'm so sorry to intrude on your day off, but I wondered if I might have a word?"

"You don't work for my brother." Sherlock said with an accusing glare.

"No, I work for Jenkins Pharmaceuticals. Mr. Jenkins would very much like to see you, Dr. Watson, if you could spare the time?"

John just raised his eyebrows. "Do I have a choice?"

"This is the woman you were flirting with on the boat?" Sherlock asked, and when John nodded, he asked, "How do you explain being on the same boat as the kidnappers? Kidnappers going after Jenkins Pharmaceuticals' secrets?"

Emily just smiled. "A fair question, and one which I assure you will be answered, Mr. Holmes. Believe me, Mr. Jenkins has several reasons to be grateful to Dr. Watson today. I promise, we mean no harm to either of you."

Nothing was said for a time, and then Emily said, "You look tired, Dr. Watson, but then—it's been a long day for you."

"It's been a long week," he told her, "This was nothing."

"Not to my employer," she stated firmly. And that was the last thing that was said until they pulled up to an office building blazoned with the Jenkins logo. She gestured them forward and they entered the lobby. Sherlock could tell John hadn't made the connection—but then, he hadn't stayed at Heathrow long enough to learn whose wallet had almost been stolen.

It wasn't until they exited the lift at the penthouse level that John recognized the man standing in front of them was the owner of the wallet he'd prevented being lifted this morning.

Sherlock watched John trying to absorb the astronomical odds that both, random crimes he'd prevented—on the first real day off he'd had in years—were connected to this man and his company. He, meanwhile, was studying the man, noting the genuine smile on his face, but nothing something stiff in the way he held his shoulders as he stepped forward. "Dr. Watson? I'm Mark Jenkins. I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you in person."

John straightened his shoulders and stepped forward to shake his hand. "It's a pleasure, though I don't think I did that much."

"Quite the contrary," the man disagreed before turning to Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, it's good to see you again as well. I owe you both a debt. My wallet this morning not only had my cash and credit cards—an inconvenience, but nothing too troublesome, though I'm grateful—but also a piece of paper with my passwords." He gave a small laugh and held up a hand. "Believe me, I know what a security risk it is, but I'm getting too old to remember as many passwords as I need, and this is ultimately easier—and relatively secure from hacking, if not from pickpockets."

He waved them toward a pleasant sitting area by the window as he continued. "That would have been enough to secure my gratitude, but … preventing Andy Fellows' kidnapping? Doctor, Mr. Holmes, I am beyond impressed.

"It was really nothing," John began but his excuses were cut off with more gushing as to his intelligence and resourcefulness. He was getting more uncomfortable by the moment, and Sherlock couldn't help his amusement at his friend's discomfort. That was John all over, really—doing extraordinary, heroic things and then being ridiculously modest about them.

Emily had brought a tray of refreshments, but Sherlock ignored it. He let John try to find a polite way to extricate himself so he could go home to bed, as he watched the man in front of him. He showed an intriguing combination of real gratitude and discomfort, like a man faced with a difficult task. But why? He hadn't seemed uncomfortable thanking John just now so … oh, of course.

Sherlock leaned forward. "You're suffering from some misinformation, Mr. Jenkins," he said. "Oh, not that John performed wonders today, because I entirely agree that he did. But there was no intent behind his good deeds. You can tell your security men to stop worrying. Any leaks there might have been in your organization do not extend to Dr. Watson."

John just blinked as Sherlock said this, but Jenkins looked uncertain. Sherlock could understand the concern—especially since the Jenkins security people didn't know _John_. With such astronomical odds, they _would_ think he'd had some kind of insider information to be able to thwart both crimes. Statistically, it actually made more sense than pure happenstance.

Except, of course, they were wrong.

Jenkins was looking at John now, face still showing gratitude, but with a serious edge. John nodded. "Pure luck," he told him. "I honestly was just playing hooky from work today and decided to go to Heathrow to see the planes like I used to do with my dad. It was pure luck that I saw the pickpocket lift your wallet, but it wasn't something I could turn my back on, either. It's why I slipped away so quickly—I didn't want to get involved with the police on my one day off."

Jenkins just watched him through narrow eyes. "And Andy Fellows?"

"He got away from the kidnapper on his own and was hiding in a corner, crying. All I saw was a lost child who needed help. I didn't put the pieces together until I'd called his mum. Then, yes, I called in the police and asked them to pick up the kidnapper at the boat, but until I'd talked to Mrs. Fellows, I thought Andy was just lost." He leaned forward. "I honestly was just trying to have a day off. Not that I wasn't glad to help, of course, I just thought it was a nice day to walk along the river instead of chasing criminals for a change."

"He lives to help," Sherlock put in. "It's why he became a doctor and a soldier to begin with."

He ignored the look John was giving him as he watched Jenkins, who finally asked, "You're saying this was purely coincidental?"

John nodded. "Hard though it is to believe. I was just in the right place at the right time … twice."

Jenkins looked between them several times and then looked back at (presumably) Emily, standing behind them, still unsure. Sherlock was starting to feel impatient. He'd been extremely forbearing, he thought, but it had been a long day and John was tired. As much as he appreciated seeing John get the credit he deserved for a change (something the Yarders were far too negligent about, in his opinion), he'd spent all the time he wanted to on this man—especially if he was going to let his suspicions get in the way of treating John properly.

Just then Jenkins' phone rang and, excusing himself, he answered it, eyes widening slightly as he nodded and agreed with whatever was said at the other end. When he disconnected, he rose to his feet. "I was just informed that the British government would reconsider its contracts with my firm if I was holding the two of you against your will."

John snorted slightly and even Sherlock had a hard time hiding his laughter. "It's just as well that you're not then, isn't it?" he asked as he rose smoothly to his feet.

Jenkins looked somewhat stunned as he said, "No, not at all … do you … who _was_ that?"

"Unimportant," Sherlock told him, "Though—and I hate to say it—you're probably best doing what he says. His threats can be beyond irritating, but he does have the power to follow through. And you _did_ bring us here out of gratitude, didn't you? So, no harm done." He gave his Charming Smile and tried to avoid it becoming a snicker as John elbowed him in the ribs.

Jenkins hesitated for a moment, looking past them to Emily before standing himself and saying, "Well, on behalf of Jenkins Pharmaceuticals as well as personally, I owe you a debt, Dr. Watson." He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. "I hope this will help convey my gratitude."

John hesitated. "I honestly don't think…"

"Oh, do take it, John, so we can finish here and go home." Sherlock told him with a firm look. "It will help him salve his guilty conscience at suspecting you of working on leaked security information. Though," he turned back to Jenkins, "You're quite right in thinking you have leaks. John's participation might have been pure chance, but you were obviously targeted. You might want to start with Emily, who managed to be on the boat with John so very promptly this afternoon—though that might be pure chance, as well."

He was happy to see that, warned by his pointed look, John was already on the move as Emily pulled out her gun to point it at Jenkins. He stopped short, though, as she swung it around to Sherlock. He remained calm though (of course), and simply said, "You never did explain how you ended up on the same boat as the kidnappers."

"You're being absurd," she said, eyes darting between the three of them. "I was following John because of his actions in the airport. Mr. Jenkins was grateful."

Sherlock stepped forward, hands held slightly out from his body, drawing her attention from John, who eased closer. "Gratitude for a thwarted mugging would be a simple phone call, a card in the mail—not sending the top of his security team after the man who was too modest to stick around. No, a chance to flirt with John was just a bonus for you—it gave you a chance to bypass the police net at Tower Hill without raising anyone's suspicions—including John's."

"What makes you think I wasn't there to flirt with him?"

Sherlock just smiled. "Because you left him after you disembarked. John may be terrible at keeping a girlfriend, but he's annoyingly good at getting dates in the first place. Had you been there to keep an eye on him and his possible connections, you would have stayed in his company for as long as possible, to pick up as much information as you could. Using him as an alibi, though? You ditched him as quickly as possible—though you took the precaution of giving him your number to allay suspicion." He held up the scrap of paper. (It wasn't like John was going to call her, anyway.)

Things happened quickly after that. She took a step toward Sherlock, face twisting, and John? Well, John took action as only he could and within moments, she was on the ground, his knee pressed into the small of her back and Sherlock was holding her gun, which John had tossed to him.

Jenkins looked horrified as he stared at his erstwhile employee. "Emily? How could you…"

"I wouldn't worry, Mr. Jenkins," Sherlock told him. "I'm sure it was just about money. Though you might want to examine the rest of your security staff, just to be sure she didn't have any other confederates in this endeavor. In the meantime, I suggest you call Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. He's already involved with Andy's kidnapping, and is by far the best detective on the force."

John meanwhile (ever-prepared) had pulled out a plastic zip tie from one of his jacket pockets and secured Emily's hands before getting to his feet and taking the gun away from Sherlock.

Jenkins stood there, jaw gaping. "I … I don't …"

"It looks like that's three favors you owe John, then, Mr. Jenkins," Sherlock told him cheerfully. "Really, we're very glad to help."

Shakily, Jenkins bent down to pick up the dropped envelope and stared at it for a moment before looking back at his head of security tied up on the floor. "I think I'll need to write you a new check."

#


	10. Chapter 10

John couldn't believe how tired he was.

He had thought he was exhausted when this day began but, no, apparently that sense of fatigue had been an amateur, a precursor to the truly masterful exhaustion that gripped his entire body. How had a simple day off from work, from Sherlock, ended up being so bloody _busy_?

Not that he hadn't enjoyed every minute. Right up until this last hour, anyway, when the need for a proper police statement had finally caught up with him. Not even Lestrade could excuse him from an altercation in Jenkins Pharmaceuticals headquarters.

And so he had missed the last bit of sunshine for the day. He had barely caught a hint of what looked like it had been a remarkable sunset. (Not only had he been busy talking to the police, but Jenkins' office windows faced South, not West.)

He couldn't really complain, though. He'd had a good run before real life had caught up to him.

And he really had enjoyed himself.

Except … he really was tired.

He groaned as he dragged himself out of the back of Jenkin's limo (it was the least he could do, the man had said). The day might have been mentally refreshing, but that didn't help the tired muscles. Who knew that gentle strolling through a day could be as tiring as running after criminals?

Sherlock reached out a hand, but John ignored it as he pushed himself to his feet. "I should have gone to work, after all. I'm just as tired as I was this morning. What was I thinking?"

"A question I spent most of the day asking," Sherlock told him as he moved to open the door. "You have the oddest notions of a relaxing day, John."

John grinned up at him. "What? Chasing criminals isn't relaxing?"

"Don't be silly. I meant this odd fixation you've had all day for sitting in the sun. We're Londoners, John. We don't 'do' sunshine."

"Speak for yourself, Sherlock. I spent years in a desert, remember?" John settled contently into the familiar banter as Sherlock opened the door and went bounding up the stairs. Where did the man get his energy? John just shook his head and started for the stairs. Then he paused, nose twitching, before running up himself, taking two steps at a time.

Their table was spread with multiple takeaway boxes from Angelo's, plates and silver at the ready. It all smelled amazing, and reminded John just how long it had been since that quick sandwich in the park.

He looked at Sherlock in amazement. "Was this you?"

Sherlock didn't pause as he took off his coat, but just nodded. "You've been so busy, you've barely had time to stop to eat. You must be starving by now."

John just stood there, staring, until Sherlock reached for his coat and pulled it from his shoulders, giving him a nudge toward the table. "I had extra time while you were making your statement for Lestrade, so I called Angelo. I feel it was partly my fault you left without your usual breakfast this morning, and wanted to make it up to you"

Sitting at the table, John opened one of the takeaway boxes and peered inside, unable to prevent a luxurious inhale at the aroma of Angelo's superlative cuisine. "Well, Sherlock, that was … this looks amazing. Thank you. You're going to eat, too?"

To his relief, Sherlock nodded and sat across from him. "I did just solve a case, after all."

"The Matthews case," John said as he took his first bite of chicken cacciatore and heaved a blissful sigh.

"No, the Watson case," Sherlock corrected him, dishing food onto his plate. "It was quite the satisfying mystery—relaxing, even, after the stresses of the Matthews case. Just the thing to refresh the senses. We should really do this again."

John felt his brow crinkling as he looked across the (thankfully candle-free) table at his flatmate. "Again? I thought you were offended I was out, inadvertently solving crimes without you."

Sherlock nodded the smallest bit, as if agreeing without wanting to agree. "That was when I thought you were leaving."

"Wait. What, leaving?"

"Mmm. When you went to Heathrow without a word … well, that's what normal people do at airports, John. They fly away somewhere."

John put down his fork. "But my passport was here, Sherlock. Where could I have gone? And without my wallet?"

Sherlock was shredding a piece of garlic bread. "But I didn't know that. I didn't find out you were at Heathrow until after I've left the flat, so you_could_ have had your passport. And your wallet was so suspiciously empty … I thought you'd moved the money to somewhere more useful so I wouldn't notice."

John absorbed this for a moment, noting the wistful expression lurking behind Sherlock's purposely steady gaze. "I would never do that, Sherlock. Believe me, if I'm ever going to leave—for real, for good—I'll tell you, I promise. Not that that's going to happen. And my wallet being empty … well, we covered that. It's why normal blokes like me need jobs, after all."

Sherlock mumbled something as he took a bite of lasagna. John had to ask him twice before he finally said clearly, "You are not normal."

He couldn't help the chuckle. "Compared to you, everyone's normal, Sherlock."

Sherlock set his own fork down and glared at John. Actually glared at him. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I am well aware of the disgustingly mundane tendencies of the British population at large. I am also aware of my own intelligence, and ask that you not insult it by trying to imply you are anything like all those … people … I saw today, traveling in herds like sheep, looking where they were pointed, taking photos because they weren't bright enough to remember anything without visual aids. I'm quite sure none of them solved any crimes today, much less three of such magnitude."

John gave a little half smile and reached for the garlic bread. "I don't think I can take credit for that last one, Sherlock. I just did the grunt work."

"After helping weed out several security weaknesses for Jenkins," Sherlock said, his voice insistent. "You underestimate yourself, John, and I wish you wouldn't."

John looked down at his plate, pushing bits of ravioli back and forth with his knife as he tried to think of a response. Sherlock couldn't have meant that to sound so much like … a compliment, could he? He was grateful to know that Sherlock considered him a step above the so-called 'normal' people, but that didn't make him special, not really. Honestly, he hadn't done anything that unusual, even if the crimes had ended up linked—it's not like he had known that. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, after all.

When the silence had lengthened too much, he glanced back up to find himself pinned by Sherlock's gaze—something he was quite used to, but which felt odd just now, in the midst of this particular conversation. "I wasn't joking earlier when I mentioned your new fans, John. You seem to acquire them wherever you go—even when I am barely tolerated. No, no, I know that's true and it has long since ceased to worry me. But Lestrade spoke of you with respect and almost affection today, as did Mycroft. You are quite extraordinary. The fact that your idea of relaxation is to _help_ people? Quite extraordinary. I sometimes forget. I'm sorry."

John was floored. Sherlock had just _apologized_ to him? Talk about extraordinary behavior. The moment stretched out until John gave an awkward little nod. "It's not a big deal, but … thank you." He looked back at his plate and took another mouthful. "And thank you for this. It's heavenly … and I should know, being reminded of the stars in the heavens just this afternoon."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. If you saw five minutes of that presentation, I'll eat this entire dish of lasagna. You were asleep before it had even begun."

"No, not quite that fast," John said, laughing. "I was awake long enough to hear Jupiter playing and to remember shooting at the Golem before I drifted off. It was very soothing. I should go back some time when I can actually stay awake—it would have been interesting."

"Oh, please. The only thing the stars are actually good for are navigating, and that's practically impossible in London, so why bother?"

John spooned some sautéed spinach to his plate. "I know this will come as a shock, but there's a world outside London."

Sherlock just waved his hand. "Boring. This is the place to be, John."

He really couldn't think of anything to say with that and just nodded—because Sherlock was right. There was no place that he'd rather be.

"I mean it, though."

"What's that, Sherlock?"

"We should do this again? Take a day off and see how many crimes we can find."

John just laughed. "That's not a day off, Sherlock, that's just trolling for more work. A day off is supposed to be relaxing, filled with things you don't normally get to do, things you enjoy."

"Like looking at planes?" Sherlock's voice was sly.

"If that's what you like," John said imperturbably. "Or a planetarium, a park, a sail … something different, something _fun_."

Sherlock bobbed his head. "Fine, we'll do that then."

"What?" John felt he'd missed something.

"You'll take a day off and I'll try to figure out what you're doing. It was more challenging than I'd expected, you know. I kept thinking you had a purpose to where you were going but couldn't deduce it—it wasn't until I realized that your entire goal was _recreation_" (he said it like it was a dirty word) "That I was able to find you. So, we should do that again. With your attention span, who knows where you'll turn up?"

John couldn't hide his smile. "I'm pretty sure there was a compliment in there somewhere."

"Of course there was, John. Besides, with Jenkin's check, it's not like you need to go back to the surgery any time soon," Sherlock said calmly. "Are you going to eat any more of that salad?"

They ate in companionship for a while and then John opened the last container and let out a small moan. "Angelo's homemade cannolli. Oh God, I'm in heaven."

He handed one to Sherlock and then headed to the door. "Where are you going?"

"Mrs. Hudson loves these. I thought I'd ask her to join us for dessert."

"She'll insist on cleaning up," Sherlock grumbled, but he was clearing away Styrofoam boxes as he did, making room. "Here, I'll go get her. You start the tea. And later, you can find something mindless and pointless like James Bond on the telly, just to cap off your day."

"Oi, James Bond is _not_ pointless, Sherlock!" But his flatmate was already gone, charging down the stairs. John filled the kettle and just smiled. Exhausted though he was, Sherlock was right.

He needed to play hooky more often.

##

THE END

Hope you all had as much fun with this as I did!


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